


Little Talks

by jonbsims



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Trans Character, done by peter and only mentioned in passing, non sexy cuddling, peter lukas exists and i hate him, very achivist jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 14:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18033806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonbsims/pseuds/jonbsims
Summary: Jonathan Sims is wonderfully beautiful, in a way that is all his own.  That is true long before he visits the archives, never to leave again, but it only becomes more true as time passes.A narrative following Martin's perspective on his relationship with Jonathan Sims, or The Archivist.





	Little Talks

Jonathan Sims is wonderfully beautiful, in a way that is all his own. That is true long before he visits the archives, never to leave again, but it only becomes more true as time passes.

He enters the Institute, never bright-eyed but always with an air of determination and confidence. His dark, curly hair is short, but in a way that makes it clear it is not very well taken care of, frizz going every which way from being brushed through and through. He doesn’t pay the chubby, trembling tower of a man any mind, but by god does Martin mind him. He is smitten at first glance.

Of course, Jon doesn’t notice - he’s too busy with the upkeep of the Archives. Martin doesn’t mind, it’s to be expected, he just wishes it didn’t hurt so much when the Archivist looks at him with such disdain and annoyance in his eyes - although, that is to be expected as well.

But Martin does his job as best he can, makes tea, and tries not to let Jon’s snide comments get to him.

They do, though. It all comes to a peak when Martin attempts to solve yet another problem with a hot pot of earl grey, and Jon becomes frustrated enough to raise his voice.

“If you worked half as hard at your JOB as you did at trying to get people to LIKE you, _half the bloody archives would be recorded by now!_ ”

Martin stares in shocked silence, scouring his brain for some sort of rebuttal and finding none. He stutters, trying to get out an apology instead, but he finds that simply opening his mouth broke a dam in his throat. Before long, hot, fat tears are rolling down his red cheeks uncontrollably. Frustration and anger turn to surprise and regret in a matter of seconds as Jon realizes his mistake.

“Jesus, Martin, I - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… I’m sorry.”

Martin can’t bring himself to respond, simply biting back the feeling of self-loathing rising in his stomach and desperately trying to keep his sobs from escaping into the open air - a hopeless endeavor, of course. Jon stands there, looking lost and worried, unsure of what the ‘proper’ thing to do in such a situation. He raises a hesitant hand to pat Martin on the shoulder. “There, there?”

Martin almost feels like laughing, but the contact only serves to make his face burn twice as bright with the shame. He’s so pathetic that even the one that hates him the most looks at him with pity, he thinks bitterly.

There is a good deal of time after that where Jon seems to be walking on eggshells around him, which embarrasses him at best and he hates at worst. 

As the self-loathing recedes and Jon’s concerned glances lessen, things almost return to normal. So Martin tells himself, anyway - he even starts making tea for everyone again. And when the biting words are deep, deep in the darkest corners of his mind, he remembers his love again, and he watches the Archivist from a distance like the fool he is.

It’s the little things, he thinks, that keeps him crawling back to Jon day after day. The way he brushes his now long, untamed curls out of his face - apparently, cutting it was too much of a bother, now that he is so busy organizing the Archives, but Martin thinks it’s beautiful anyway. Even the thin, silvery threads of hair that he initially thinks are from stress are beautiful, even after he looks at pictures of Gertrude and her hair interspersed with bright white clumps radiating out from her forehead and realizes that, if he were to find pictures of any of the other archivists, they would most likely have the same bright, white hair.

Another trait Martin thinks might be frighteningly similar if he looked hard enough are the eyes. He only really notices how much they’ve changed when Jon is scrutinizing his bandages during his statement. They were a wonderfully deep green, like a shining forest, he thinks, but as he looks at them now, sweat rolling down his forehead as words tumble out of his mouth, they look much too bright. They shift through several different colors, neon green into a faded orange, bright flecks of a sparkling gold dancing around a too big pupil as though someone had injected gold leaf into the Archivist’s cornea.

Martin swears he can see it sparkling in the light.

“Martin? Martin? I said that will be all.”

He jolts upright, abruptly startled out of his dazed state. “Oh, okay,” he chuckles nervously, gathering up his things and leaving the office, face bright red. Jon is beautiful, he’s known that from the beginning, so he can’t help if his eyes linger longer than they should.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, then, that Martin thinks that Jon is beautiful even despite the scars that quickly begin to mar his skin - maybe even because of them. 

It occurs to him, one day, that they look almost like stars, the pale pink burned into smooth, brown skin. A reminder not only of what terrible things have happened, but also that he lived through them. Martin hopes that’s what he sees in the mirror, too, but if he doesn’t, Martin wouldn’t mind tracing constellations into the Archivist’s back until he changes his mind.

He is on this sort of train of thought too, when he’s pouring a cup of tea for Jon late, late at night. He keeps sneaking glances at Jon, who is distractedly leafing through pages of another statement.

“You know, Martin,” Jon starts, amusement in his voice, “you seem to keep staring at me. You might give someone the wrong idea. Are you, perhaps, in love with me?”

“Yes, very, actually.”

Jon blinks. So does Martin.

“Oh.”

Martin flails somewhat, spilling tea on the desk. He squeaks, setting down the teapot and looking around for something to mop up the mess with, while Jon sits there, shocked. Why did he say that? He certainly hadn’t meant to, the words just seemed to slip out, regardless of his intentions.

“I - um, I mean, that’s a joke! A joke, that’s right! Our relationship is, is, strictly business, that’s all, that’s all,” he says, gesturing around violently with the towel he found on the floor.

Jon hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t comment further.

That’s it, it’s over. What’s over, you ask? Everything, as far as he’s concerned. But, to be more specific, any chance of having a friendship with his crush - which to him is confirmed when Jon seems to start avoiding him again, only sparingly giving him suspicious looks. It seems they’re back to the same atmosphere as when the Archivist suspected him of murder.

Martin is just about ready to ask to be transferred out of the Archives to be alleviated from the pain when Jon walks up to him one day, looks at him with a scrutinizing gaze so intense he can’t find the words to speak with, and then grabs his wrist. He jumps what feels like five feet in the air, though it seems his arm is still firmly within Jon’s grasp, and though he does feel like running away right about now, he can’t bring himself to, so instead he simply braces himself for his inevitable death and hopes it’ll be quick and painless.

Instead of anything even close to murder, Jon lifts his wrist and slides his own hand up it before intertwining their fingers together.

Jon’s hands are very soft, is the first thing Martin thinks, like the kind of soft of someone who doesn’t get out very often and doesn’t do much other than read books, though he can still feel various scars on his fingers and palm, so much more petite than his own. The second thing Martin thinks is that this is perhaps, very wrong.

“Jon, um, are you, err, do you… need - need something?”

“No, but some biscuits would be very nice, thank you.”

Jon then releases his hand and walks off as though nothing had happened. Martin assumes he had a very weird waking dream-hallucination-thing and shrugs it off.

At least until the next time it happens.

At unmarked times, Jon approaches him and initiates some sort of physical contact. Holding hands, a hug, or simply standing so close that their shoulders touch. Martin never says anything about it, too scared to break the spell of...whatever this is. 

He does try, several times in fact, to bring it up, but each time becomes too nervous and ends up making more tea instead. In that aspect, he is certainly a coward, he supposes. Not the only way, either.

Jon is tracing lines up and down his arm. 

It tickles, a little bit, but Martin is doing his best to stay still and make no noise - can’t have anyone over-hearing and getting any wrong ideas, though he’s not particularly sure what a ‘right’ idea would be at this point.

He no longer turns beet red at the contact. This is just part of his job now, just like making tea with biscuits, picking dead worms off the floor, and reading through horrifying statements. He suppresses a yawn as he watches and feels Jon softly glide his hand down his forearm.

“Martin?”

He nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Did you mean what you said? About liking me?” Jon asks, gently.

Martin’s stomach sinks.

“Is that what this was about? I mean, yes, but you don’t need to pretend to -”

“I feel the same.”

Martin blinks.

“What?”

“Err, I mean, I’m not pretending. About anything. And I think I rather like you, too. If that’s okay with you.”

Martin immediately loses any of the composure he previously had about the whole situation. He can feel his face burning like the surface of the sun, and he’s stuttering at about 200 kph. Jon looks amused, but he’s blushing as well, which puts a nice splash of color on his skin that hasn’t been there in quite a while.

“Having difficulty there? I’ll give you a minute, I’m in no rush.”

Calming himself, he pats his chest and takes a few deep breaths as he prepares himself for what he’s about to say next.

“I thought you… I thought you hated me, Jon.”

Jon’s expression falls immediately and it makes Martin feel like the world is ending right here and now, no apocalypse necessary.

“I’m sorry, Martin. I’ve… I know I’ve been unfair to you,” he says, a sad look on his face. “You’re a good person, and you don’t deserve any of what I’ve put you through - what the Institute has put you through - I’ve been angry and confused and - and well. Honestly, you were an easy target.”

A dry chuckle.

Martin holds back tears as Jon grabs his other hand in his own, looking away out of embarrassment or fear. He doesn’t know.

“You don’t deserve what life has done to you, and I don’t particularly deserve you, either. But I suppose I’m stubborn, and since you’re not a murderer and not a ghost, probably -”

“Probably.”

“Yes, probably. Anyway, I’d rather see where this is going, I think.”

Martin looks down at where his hands are being held by Jon’s. They’re warm. He’s alive. They’re both alive.

“Um,” he starts. “That’s a lot.”

“I know,” Jon sighs, smiling. “You don’t need to say anything. Not right now anyway.”

Martin considers this briefly before nodding. To be honest, he’s a bit overwhelmed right now, and he’s not sure he could say more on the matter without collapsing into a pile of very flustered human. Jon laughs and it’s a beautiful noise.

“Good. Well, it’s about time we both go back to work. Wouldn’t want… Well.”

“Elias to get suspicious?” Martin finishes, nervous.

“Right. Of course. Wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

As Martin goes back to organizing file cabinets, he ignores the heavy weight in his chest. No matter what has happened, no matter what will happen, he has Jon right now. He just hopes it can stay that way. He holds his hand close to his heart, both still tingling from the contact.

The next day, Martin tries to steel himself to bring it up again. The next day, there is a dead body in the archives.

It couldn’t have been Jon. Jon isn’t a murderer, by any means. Even with all the evidence stacked against him, it’s not something Martin could ever believe he’s capable of. Even so, he can’t help the empty feeling in his chest. He fills the silence with statements. Even the pain that fills his lungs once he’s finished is better than acknowledging the thoughts filling his mind.

He tells himself that Jon would be proud of him, for filling in as his apprentice, even though he knows the reaction wouldn’t be a particularly positive one. The role of the Archivist was Jon’s burden alone, after all.

Even so, the thought of Jon telling him he’s doing a good job while slowly rubbing circles into his palm is a pleasant one.

That’s what keeps him going until Jon returns.

Until the Archivist returns, and Martin finds out his crush had been kidnapped.

His crush had been kidnapped, and he’d been sitting here recording stupid statements and daydreaming about a better place.

After having approximately ten breakdowns about this, he makes up his mind. No more second guessing. No more insecurities. No more wishy-washy decision making. He had been made an offer, and he was going to take it.

If it even still stands, he thought anxiously.

Even so, he walks up to a very exhausted looking Jon, forcing himself to look the Archivist in the eyes.

“Dinner?”

Jon blinks.

“I’m sorry, erm… Did I ask you something, or…?”

Martin steels himself, trying not to break the eye contact he has maintained thus far, and failing miserably.

“I mean - about - about what we talked about before the whole - kidnapping thing, sorry about that again, but that’s not the point, um... With the whole, um, liking me, I guess, since I’m not a ghost or a murderer and also your options are kind of limited right now with all the death and murder and belonging to an evil eye god and, oh dear, I’m rambling, but I -”

Jon’s hand clasping around his interrupts his mumbling full stop. He’s smiling that same, gentle smile that makes Martin’s heart race.

“I think,” Martin says, only trembling slightly, “I think what I’m saying is, Jonathan Sims, would you like to have dinner with me sometime soon?”

Jon bursts into bubbly laughter, and Martin thinks he’s probably the luckiest man alive to have heard that noise so many times in his lifetime. Beholden to an evil institute or not, this is where he wants to be.

“Yes, Martin Blackwood,” the name slips off Jon’s tongue as silk and Martin has never been more thankful. “In fact, I think I know just the place to take you.”

So they discuss a time and a place to meet, and after much shuffling around each other’s schedules, they settle on a plan. Martin beams, this is something he’s wanted for...for forever, though he never quite thought he would get this far, except for in his daydreams. He thinks better of pinching himself though. He strongly considers it, but there is this indescribable aura around Jon that never quite makes its way into his dreams. He’s gotten this far, there’s nothing that could go wrong now.

Except that he’s very, very wrong, he thinks, standing out in the cold, nighttime city air.

Jon is standing beside him in about five layers of clothing, bundled up with a smug little smile, which makes Martin very nervous about what he’s thinking about saying.

“Jon?”

“Yes?”

“Please tell me this isn’t the restaurant you wanted to take me to.”

Jon looks at him with a puzzled look and that tells him all he needs to know.

“Yes, Martin, this is the place. I thought you would like it, it seems like your style. Now come on, we’re going to catch a cold out here,” Jon says impatiently, grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the entrance.

“Jon,” Martin says in a frustrated voice, but it goes ignored.

They’re at the waiting area now, and the anxiety is starting to really set in, making him feel rather nauseous. He considers using that as an excuse to call the whole thing off. Was this a mistake? He shakes his head and takes a deep breath.

“Jon,” he says in a firmer voice.

Jon looks at him again and now Martin can see the look of hurt.

“Is there some reason you don’t want to go here? Do you not like Italian? Is there an allergy I don’t know about? We could go somewhere else if you like -”

“Jon, that’s not it.”

Martin sighs and rubs his face. He looks to the menu pinned to the wall to confirm his suspicions.

“Then what is it?” Jon asks.

“It’s just… This place is, um, a little above my pay-grade, I think? It’s, uh, very fancy.”

Jon looks almost relieved, and that does not comfort Martin in the least bit.

“Oh, that’s all? Don’t worry, I can pay for us, I’m not in danger of running out of money anytime soon. Being the Archivist pays well, suppose it makes up for the...other stuff.”

“That’s not - I don’t…”

“What is it, then? Please, just tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.”

“This is more than I deserve,” Martin blurts out. “I, I’m not… You’ve been so nice to me, and that makes me so happy, and this should be what I want, but… I don’t deserve. All this.”

“Oh.”

They stand there, it would be silent if it weren’t for the howling wind driving by. Martin feels like he’s just kicked a puppy.

“Martin…”

“Jon, please, you don’t have to…”

“Martin, no. You’re wrong. You do deserve this. You’re a good person, Martin, and you deserve good things. You’re hardworking, and loyal, and kind, and wonderful.”

“But I - I lied to you - ”

“No. Even when you’ve done bad things, you did them because you cared. You care about your mom. You care about me, god knows why, but you do. Even after all the things you’ve seen, all the awful, awful things you’ve seen, you still believe in the good in people, and that’s… Amazing. You’re amazing, and so strong, and you deserve every good thing that comes to you and more.”

“Jon,” Martin says, voice a whisper, “you don’t…”

An unknown voice jumps out of the restaurant.

“Hello, sirs, may I get you seated? Party of two?” 

Both of them jump at the unexpected noise. Martin rather hopes the poor greeter hadn’t heard much of their conversation, but it seems that sort of thing is just his luck.

“Yes, thank you, that would be lovely,” Jon says without missing a beat.

Martin, shockingly, is silent on the matter.

“Very well, follow me, sir,” the man says, before leading them into the building. “How has your day been so far?”

“Fine, thanks. How about you?” Jon’s voice sounds just a bit strained.

“Well, I’ve been fine, but I had something strange happen earlier. You see, I’ve always been a skeptic, because I’ve never seen any tangible proof of ghosts existing. Even experiences that others would call spooky didn’t shake my beliefs, because that’s all they were: spooky, nothing of any real substance. But earlier, I had a woman come in - ”

There is a look of dawning horror on Jon’s face.

“This, this is,” Martin stutters.

“A statement,” he finishes in a tone that could be taken as annoyance if it weren’t for his shaken expression.

The restaurant worker continues on about the lady who only showed up when no one else was in the vicinity, looking only mildly perturbed. Meanwhile, it seemed like the very chatty greeter was starting to get them looks - especially with the topic of his tangent.

“This is not ideal,” Jon mutters.

“I think maybe we should go,” Martin helpfully suggests, starting to feel suffocated by the looks directed towards him and his date, or perhaps just in their general direction in a best-case scenario.

“Good idea.”

So they turn on their heels and walk out of the establishment, leaving a very confused greeter and even more confused restaurant.

“I hope he doesn’t get fired because of us,” Martin says, heart beating out of his chest.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

There are a few moments before Martin realizes they’re walking in no particular direction, no idea of a destination now that their date location is off limits.

“Um, Jon?”

“We could go back to my place.”

Martin is suddenly glad his cheeks are already rosy from the cold.

“Jon, I -”

“Not to - not… No copulation. But I don’t think I feel like going to a restaurant anymore, and we still haven’t dinner yet, and… I could make pasta?”

Despite himself, Martin snorts. It feels so incredibly domestic, he can’t help it.

“Sure, Jon, pasta would be lovely,” he says, smiling from ear to ear. Jon smiles back.

The rest of the walk back is fairly comfortable, albeit quiet, though he can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s missing something, as he stares at the back of Jon’s fluffy hair, scarf gently blowing in the frigid wind.

He has fun, watching Jon struggle and curse while he tries to unlock the door to his small apartment.

He has less fun with the oncoming embarrassment at entering the dark apartment and Jon beginning to strip out of his multiple coats.

He doesn’t particularly want to watch, whether or not the Archivist has at least two layers of sweaters below that, so instead he decides to get a proper look at his surroundings. It is, unsurprisingly, fairly bare, except for a smattering of documents and notebooks on any available surface, including the floor. There is one generic still life painting on the wall, and no pictures. There’s a half empty cup of what Martin assumes is coffee on a coffee table, probably from before he became a fugitive. He wonders how much time Jon actually spends in here versus in the Archives. It feels very in character.

“Sorry about the mess - have a seat on the couch, I’ll make us some tea,” Jon says, hanging up his coats and heading to the kitchen.

“How the tables have turned,” Martin says, except very not out loud, and he instead awkwardly shuffles to the couch to take a seat.

The couch is lumpy and uncomfortable and the air is frigid.

“Martin, do you like marinara? I have some canned in the pantry.”

Somehow, it still feels like home.

“Sure.”

After a few minutes of him fiddling with his thumbs, Jon comes in with two steaming hot cups of tea. He sits down next to Martin after handing him one. Martin blushes and thanks him. The tea is too bitter and it tastes wonderful. There’s a gentle smell of garlic and tomato wafting from the other room.

There are a few minutes of calm silence as they sip their tea before someone speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

“Uh,” Martin says puzzled. “What for? The teas a little burnt, but it’s not-”

“For not knowing. I uh - about the not wanting to - is the tea really that burnt? Sorry, besides the point.”

“What? You think - what, you think I’m mad at you for not knowing about all my insecurities, especially right after everything that’s happened to you?”

“No! I mean, you’re Martin, you don’t get angry, usually anyway, you’re too nice for that. But, still, I’m sorry for not realizing sooner.”

Martin sets down his cup as gently as he can, bewildered and vaguely frustrated at this conversation.

“Jon, I don’t expect you to know every little thing about me. You don’t need to know everything about me.”

“But I want to,” Jon says, and suddenly there’s his hand on Martin’s.

“What?” he asks, blushing.

“I want to know every little thing about you. I want to know your childhood dreams, I want to know the way you get ready in the morning, I want to know what makes you cry. Because you’re Martin, and you’re wonderful, and I want to know everything about you.”

“I’m not sure you would like me all that much if you knew everything about me,” Martin whispers, and he tries to look away, but a hand on his cheek stops him.

“No. I could never… You’re beautiful, everything about you is beautiful, even the parts that you don’t like others seeing. Even the parts you hate about yourself, I love them, and they’re beautiful, because they’re _you_.”

Martin is somewhere between starry and teary eyed, and so incredibly flustered that all he can think of to say is “Does it smell like something’s burning to you?”

Jon goes wide-eyed, curses, and runs to the kitchen in a flash.

There’s more cursing, and then there’s the sound of metal clinking and a sink, and then there’s a very apologetic Archivist standing in the doorway. 

“I think that was my last can of sauce,” he says.

“We can always just have pasta with butter,” Martin says, though that sounds rather bland.

“Let’s - let’s just order takeout, shall we?”

“Actually - yeah. Yeah, takeout sounds wonderful right about now.”

The Chinese takeout they order is not necessarily good, though it is not necessarily bad either, and they laugh about it while sitting on the couch watching some soap opera on the telly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Martin wonders if it was the Archivist speaking, not Jonathan Sims, on the matter of wanting to know ‘everything’ about him. Then again, he has never felt so loved as when Jon falls asleep on his shoulder in the dim light of cheap drama.

The next morning, they stagger their arrivals by about an hour. Martin is in yesterday’s clothes, but he can’t find it in himself to care with how happy he feels. When he walks into Jon’s office that morning, the Archivist smiles at him, and it fills him with warmth.

Martin gathers up loose papers around the Archives with a smile on his face and a tune trailing behind him.

“Get laid, huh, Martin? Didn’t know anyone could date in such extenuating circumstances!”

“T-Tim!” Martin squeaks, and the aforementioned assistant laughs.

He takes a few deep breaths, clutches his chest and hopes the blush on his face isn’t too particularly obvious.

“I, um, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Tim,” he says as calmly as possible.

“Oh come on! You can’t fool me, you’re practically glowing! What’s the lucky man’s name? Or girl? I’m not judging!”

“There! There is no, um, there’s no girl.” He pauses. “Guy, either,” he corrects, turning away.

“Oh come oooon,” Tim whines. “But fine, I won’t pry. But, I uh, I’m happy for you, Martin. Hold onto that little bit of happiness for as long as you can.”

In that moment, he sounds so solemn and vulnerable that Martin whips around, already trying to say something comforting, but by that time Tim has already walked off. He sighs a breath he didn’t know was holding.

“I guess I’ll go make some tea,” Martin says to nobody in particular.

After that he doesn’t feel particularly joyful anymore, but Jon does thank him for the tea with a wistful look on his face before asking him to do some research on a statement.

Research is easy. He can lose himself in books and documents fairly easily, and it makes Jon happy if he does it right or in a timely manner. Besides, it’s easier to forget that the things he reads about could easily kill him if they wished when it’s just that: reading about them, nothing more. Before he knows it, it’s already five, and he has a neat stack of notes, relevant documents, and books mentioning the subject.

Martin puffs up at the sight of it, and goes off to find Jon at the Institute’s front entryway.

“Jon! I, um, I did that research you wanted me to. I put it on your desk, so you can look at it first thing tomorrow! If you want, I mean.”

Jon blinks, smiles, and then walks up to Martin and gives him a peck on the lips.

“Good job, Martin. I look forward to seeing your work.” He pauses at the assistant’s red, panicked face. “I’m sorry, did I misunderstand? Did you not want me to kiss you?”

Martin stutters wildly for a solid moment before pulling himself back together.

“Of, of course I want you to bloody kiss me, I just - just, what if someone...saw us? You know, like… You know.”

Jon laughs, gently, a soft and breezy sound. He gestures to the space around him.

“There’s no one here to see us.” No one that cares, anyway. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. Now come on, let’s go home!”

“H… Home?” Martin looks away, flustered. “You mean. You mean, your apartment.”

“Yes. Unless you don’t want to…?”

“No! I mean, yes, I would like to… But, um, I’ve been wearing these clothes for a couple days already, and it’s starting to get uncomfortable. No offense.”

“Oh! Do you want to stop by your place first, then, or... Something?” 

Martin smiles.

“Sure. I can pack for a few days.”

This time, they call a cab. Martin gives the address and the ride after that is mostly in silence. He thinks of maybe trying to make small talk, but then Jon lays his head on his shoulder, and the assistant is firmly shut up.

Once they’re at the building, Jon pays the fare before Martin even has time to reach for his wallet.

“I could have paid that, you know,” he says as he walks up the stairs, trying not to stumble as he searches for his keys, with little luck.

“Paying is of no trouble to me, I assure you. Also, you should look where you’re going.”

Martin huffs at the Archivist, who is a couple steps ahead of him. He tries not to think about the implication of that. By the time he has his keys out and ready, Jon is patiently waiting by the door, scarf over his mouth and his arms tightly wrapped around himself.

He knew the state this place was in, but he still can’t help but wince when he sees the clutter covering his apartment covered by darkness, split by the grey sunlight through the door. He quickly flicks the light on as Jon enters briskly, apparently not bothered either way. Martin rushes after him.

“I could make some tea, or - “

“I’m sure I can be patient enough to wait for the tea in my apartment, thank you.”

“Or I could just grab a few things and we can go right away? Either way, go on and - sit wherever you like? I’ll just be in the other room. Err, right over there, okay?”

As Jon plops down on the armchair, Martin goes to his bedroom and turns the lamp on.

He knows why Jon doesn’t want to stay here too long. Brings up bad memories. It’s okay, Martin feels the same way. He can’t help but feel a creeping sense of anxiety in here, even with the stark knowledge that Jane Prentiss was dead and can no longer hurt him. As he opens up his dresser and starts grabbing assorted clothing, his eye catches a glint of bright, white light from his bedside lamp catching on silver.

His gaze lingers on the metal instrument for only a few moments before he quickly looks away, holding the blue sweater in his hands close to his chest. He remembers his conversation with Tim earlier. He decides to go back to the living room.

“Jon, I think we should - um…”

Jon is no longer sitting down, but standing next to coffee table, a picture frame balanced delicately in his hand.

The photo is something Martin would recognize anywhere. An older woman, with long coffee brown hair, hands on the shoulders of a young girl in pigtails, smiling at the camera. Something he’d been meaning to throw out for so long, but could never bring himself to.

“Jon. Can you, um, please put that back. I’d prefer you not to - can you not look at my personal effects?”

Jon squints at him, clearly suspicious. “Very well. I apologize for intruding.” Martin sighs in relief as the frame is set back on the table. “Were you going to say something else?”

“Oh, I just… I just.” He sits down on the couch, fiddling with his hands nervously. “I’m just worried about Tim.”

“Ah.”

“The others, too. Well, Elias not so much, I think he’s fine without our help, to be perfectly honest,” he chuckles.

“Is that so?”

“Yes! I mean. Earlier today, I guess Tim noticed that I was. Happy, because of. You know.”

Jon smiles lovingly at Martin and he smiles back.

“Well, he, um,” he continues, “I don’t think he… Well, he said some rather worrying things? And I just thought you could…”

“You know full well Tim trusts you more than he trusts me. If anyone is going to do anything about it, it should be you - if I approach him about his mental health I’m afraid he might pull out a knife.”

“I know that! But, uh, could you at least keep an… eye on him? I suppose?”

At first, Jon just sighs, head lulling to the side, hair falling over his face. When he looks back up, the smile on his face is sad.

“Of course. I’ll keep an eye out, and try to make sure he doesn’t do anything too rash.”

“Thank you, Jon. It… It means a lot to me.”

Just like that, the sad look is gone, and Jon’s sharp eyes and neutral pout are back as he sinks back into the chair. “Anyway,” he says, “we should get going. It’s going to get dark soon, and I’d prefer to get back to my apartment before that.”

Martin blushes, though he feels it’s a silly thing to be embarrassed about. Jon’s apartment. Which he would be going to, and sleeping in, and most likely ordering takeout in - something he had only dreamt about for the longest time. Still, it is a welcome reprieve from the other, much less pleasant things that are happening in their lives, and he suspects Jon felt the same way.

He was right about one thing, at least, as after settling down after the cab ride they call for pizza. This time Martin insists on paying for it, and Jon accepts in a way that makes it clear this is only to satisfy him.

This time, they do not fall asleep on the couch.

This, Martin is grateful for, as he still has a painful knot in his shoulder from the previous night. Though, this might be worse for his likelihood of having a heart attack.

This time, they get into Jon’s tiny little bed that barely accommodates the two of them. He says good night, and the Archivist mumbles it back to him, clearly on the verge of falling asleep. They’re not touching, but as much as Martin thinks spooning would be nicer, he can hear Jon’s breathing and feel the body heat radiating off of him. Even with the horrible things happening in their lives, this could be beautiful.

Martin gets up in the morning, gets dressed, all the normal things, except this time, Jon is there, stretching and yawning like a cat.

It’s all so sickeningly domestic, he can almost forget about the pit of anxiety in his stomach.

The day at work is less good for this. He thought perhaps having Jon back at the Archives would help somewhat, but it seems that the atmosphere is just getting heavier and heavier, no matter how hard Martin tries to ignore it.

It doesn’t help when Jon tells him he plans to leave again on the steps outside the Institute.

“So soon?”

“I’m sorry, Martin, but I need to do this.”

 

“But we just - you just got back. To the Institute. To me.”

Jon looks at him with that sad, sad smile on his face, and Martin wishes he had never said anything at all, but then there’s a soft, scarred hand on his face. He can feel tears in his eyes.

“I won’t be leaving for a few more days. And I’ll try to be back as soon as possible. Just… Trust me, okay? I’ll come back to you.”

Martin laughs, because he can’t particularly see how genuine Jon is being through the tears clouding his eyes. He puts his hand on top of Jon’s hand, not wanting the Archivist to leave his side, at least not yet.

“I’m gonna miss you,” he says.

“I know.”

Martin sucks in a deep breath, releasing Jon and wiping the tears from his cheeks.

“We should go back to your apartment before it gets dark.”

“Yeah.”

The cab ride back is silent, and it feels somewhat more tense than before. Still, Jon looks like he’s at peace, if a little melancholy, so Martin can’t bring himself to be too upset. The walk up to the apartment building isn’t much better.

“You can just say it, you know.”

Martin jumps, and he thinks his heart probably stopped for at least a few seconds.

“Say, um, what, Jon?”

“What you’re thinking. About me leaving.”

“Frankly, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jon stops abruptly and turns point blank to face him, and he looks frighteningly vulnerable right now, a stark contrast to his earlier calm.

“I know it was unfair to you,” he says, “I know I should have told you as soon as I got back. You were just - you were so sweet and happy and eager, and I didn’t want to spoil that for you, because - because…”

Jon looks away as Martin stands there, shocked.

“I don’t want to leave. You make me… Happy, a lot happier than I’ve been in a while. I don’t know much about romance, so I’m not sure I’m really the best partner, but you seem to like me well enough, and I… Martin.”

“Yes?” Martin says, breathless.

“I’m scared. I’m so scared, Martin. I don’t know what the right thing to do is. I don’t want - I don’t want to leave you. I just got you, and now I’m going again, and I just - I know I need to do this, I…”

Jon is crying now, and it’s the most human he’s looked in months. The gold in his eyes glitters from the wet, and the tears roll over his scarred, burning cheeks like waterfalls.

It’s beautiful.

“Just,” Martin starts, “just make sure to come back to me, okay?”

“I’ll always come back to you. I’ll always come back to you, Martin.”

Martin sighs deeply, trying his best not to cry himself. Once a day is more than enough, thank you. He instead reaches out, before grabbing Jon in a gentle embrace, soft as though he were afraid the trembling Archivist would shatter beneath his grip, a glass lens through which the world was viewed.

“I’ll always come back to you,” Jon says one last time, muffled.

They don’t talk about it after that. There’s really nothing to talk about, after all. Martin just wants to enjoy his last few days of time with Jon before he was gone for - who knows how long. Hopefully not that long. The Archivist seems not to acknowledge that anything happened at all, presumably because he didn’t want anyone to be suspicious.

Martin doesn’t push the subject, even at home.

Dear god, when did he start thinking of Jon’s apartment as ‘home’? Would he be staying there once Jon left? Was that even an option?

Martin doesn’t get the chance to ask about it, because one day Jon is there and the next he is not, no warning. Of course, the assistant tries to act surprised about it as the rest of them, though unlike most of them he knows exactly why he’s gone.

Though, he doesn’t know where Jon is, as it was deemed too much of a liability. 

The days with Jon went by too fast, and the days without him go by too slow, it seems - Martin tries his best to distract himself from it by burying himself in statements and research. It works, for the most part. Less so when work is over and he goes home.

It’s hard not to feel lonely there, when all his memories of the place are of being with Jon. Going back to his own apartment isn’t any better - it only reminds him of less pleasant times, filled with worms and canned peaches and little girls with absent fathers. Even simply spending a night there feels like suffocating.

So, instead, he stays in an empty bed that seems far too small and smells less like Jon with each passing day.

He tells himself that it will all be better when Jon comes back, he just has to be patient.

He is proven wrong when Jon does really come back.

At first, he’s relieved, of course, like he thought he would be, but it seems that Jon has plans other than kissing him on the cheek and giving him a pat on the back.

“You’re saying… That the Institute, is some sort of... Evil fear demon? That controls all of us? And we can’t leave?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it a ‘demon’, it’s more of like, an evil god, but - sure, that about sums it up.”

“And there are others that are - different, and they all want to perform a ritual.”

“Their own individual rituals, but yes.”

“And one of them is soon, and that’s why that mannequin lady kidnapped you and...tried to skin you? And you’re going to try and stop it.”

Jon pauses for a moment, thinking, before nodding. Martin frowns.

“I don’t want you to - I don’t want you putting yourself in the way of danger, Jon. You’ve already almost been killed by these people once, and now you’re going to go back there with _what_? With a bomb? I don’t like it.”

The Archivist sighs, hand on temple. He had obviously been expecting this reaction. Martin feels rather like a pouting child.

“If I - if we don’t stop this thing, I can’t guarantee that any of us will survive. At least not in a way that’s pleasant, I suppose. Now that I know about it, I can’t just… Let that happen. At least not without a fight.”

“Okay,” Martin nods, slowly. “Then you have to let me go with you.”

The response comes with no hesitation, “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? You trust me, don’t you? I can help, I can do things, I can -”

“Martin.”

Martin’s cheeks burn a bright red.

“I just…” Jon says, quieter. “I can’t let you go. You’re too…” Important. “I can’t lose you. Not now.”

It’s obvious he isn’t going to win this argument. There’s a moment of too empty silence.

“You’ll come back to me?”

“I’ll always come back to you. I promise.”

Martin looks away, feeling too much to focus on anything other than his hands - until Jon reaches over and grabs one of them, rubbing circles into his palm.

“Okay,” Martin says.

“It’s still a while before the ritual, I think, a few weeks, I just wanted you to know. It’s going to be a while.”

“Okay,” he says again.

“Okay.”

He’d resigned himself to Jon leaving, one last time, but he is even less happy to find that it seems Martin is of the minority of who was and wasn’t going. Though, he’s quite sure the Archivist wouldn’t be able to convince them to stay back like he had Martin.

Martin always had a weak spot when it came to Jon, it seems.

He does find a way to help, nonetheless, and though he’s sure it will be quite unpleasant, he’s quite happy to know that he won’t just be sitting back at the Archives doing nothing. Burning statements seems like it would be quite therapeutic.

The plan is set. Everyone knows what they’ll be doing.

He still finds himself trembling at the uncertainty of it all, though.

Jon notices it, the night before they’re scheduled to leave. They finally managed to make spaghetti - a group effort, for sure. It tastes good, as much as Martin can tell with a tongue numb from anxiety, and as much as he can actually get into his mouth with the tremors of his hands.

On a particularly difficult bite, Jon reaches over, gently patting Martin’s wrist and lowering it back to the plate.

“Jon?”

The Archivist doesn’t respond, instead simply putting his other hand on the side of Martin’s head, gently guiding it until it was firmly in his lap. The spaghetti is left ignored. Soon, he feels Jon’s fingers threading through his hair, massaging his scalp. Any questions or arguments he has die in his throat.

“Statement seven-eight-seven-zero-two-one-one. A regular human managed to get away from The Unknowing, and well, it appears I am no longer just a… ‘Regular human’.”

Martin stays silent, not sure what to say. Jon waits a few beats before speaking again.

“I know you’ll worry anyway. That’s okay. That’s just what you do, I suppose. But you just… You just need to be patient. Trust me on this, Martin, trust that I’ll come back to you.”

“Because… You’ll always come back to me,” Martin whispers.

“I’ll always come back to you,” Jon repeats.

Jon does come back. Just not alive.

Medically speaking, anyway. Apparently, Jon was right about one thing - he can’t be killed like a normal human being, because he isn’t one. That’s okay, Martin loves him anyway.

When Martin walks into the hospital room, his eyes are still crusted from tears.

The Archivist’s hand is lukewarm. Not cold, no, but not warm enough to be called alive, either. He holds it anyway, cradling it to his chest as he hunches over the man’s unconscious body.

This is wrong. Martin knows this is wrong, on so many levels. Jon should be in a grave like whatever was left of Tim - Daisy, too, except there was nothing. Instead, he lays there, looking as peaceful as he ever could, hair singed at the ends, the rest burned away. Two of his eyes are covered in bandages - the third one is fluttering in REM sleep, as though he were alive. Alive and in a deep, deep sleep.

“Wake up,” Martin whispers, tears streaming down his face and dripping onto Jon’s gown.

Nothing happens.

“Wake up,” he repeats. “You promised you’d come back to me. So wake up. Please.”

He keeps his eyes on Jon’s face - as much as he can through the tears, anyway, trying to somehow will the Archivist out of his dreams. As though Martin’s meager presence could break his coma. It doesn’t. The room stays silent save for the sniffling.

When he goes back to the Institute, Peter Lukas is there for him with an offer.

He doesn’t listen. Not at first. When Peter says that Jon will never wake up, he doesn’t believe it for a second, even with the ache in his bones that tells him it’s true, because he doesn’t think he could live with himself if it were. He ignores the ringing in his ears and tells the lonely man politely that he isn’t interested.

It gets more difficult as time passes.

He tells himself he’s willing to wait a lifetime for Jon. He tells himself that again and again, but days turns into weeks, weeks turn into a month.

One month turns into two.

He never seems to run into the other assistants - even when he tries to talk to them, even when he hears their voices, it seems that whenever he enters a room it seems to be vacant, except on rare occasions. He assumes this is the influence of Peter.

He visits Jon regularly, of course. Talks about his day - the little things; the latest tea he’s purchased, the spiders in his apartment, and the weather are all regular topics. He tries his best not to cry mid-sentence.

But today is different.

Today isn’t about pleasantries, or small talk, or anything like that. Today is a plea.

He sits down by Jon’s side, eyes red, and grabs the Archivist’s hand in his own for the first time since he first came here.

“Hi, Jon. It’s nice to see you,” Martin lies.

He starts rubbing circles into Jon’s palm, afraid to stay still. The skin is still lukewarm: not cold enough to be dead, not warm enough to be alive.

“I, um. Wow, there uh. Really isn’t any easy way to say this, is there?” He laughs weakly.

He looks away, face burning.

“My mom died,” he says, quickly.

He can feel wetness in the corners of his eyes, so he sucks in a deep breath and pushes it back.

“I guess it was just - I… It’s not my fault. There wasn’t anything to be done about it. And now she’s gone, just like… Well. You know.”

He takes a moment to collect himself, his thoughts, wiping at his damp face before leaning in close to the Archivist’s face.

“You promised me. You promised me you’d come back to me, you - you have to come back to me. Everybody else, they’re… Please. Just give me a sign. Anything. Anything that could tell me you’re not just a - just a corpse, a husk, an empty body. Please.”

But Jon does not move. Martin does not receive a telepathic message, nor does he feel a tingle on the back of his neck. There is no sign. Jon is gone.

He can feel the lonely man standing in the doorway, but he doesn’t say a word. He instead grips Jon’s hand, letting his panic attack blow over, his hyperventilation slow into shaky breathing.

He leans in, one last time, and kisses Jon’s forehead, tender as he can be, not caring that he’s getting his tears everywhere.

He pulls away.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

Peter Lukas smiles.

Jon’s eyes - all three of them - twitch as they leave.

Jon is gone. Nonetheless, he wakes up in four months’ time.

He feels like he’s just woken from a 12 hour nap, though he’s duly informed that it’s been much longer than that. It would make sense, his throat is… Very dry. Once the initial excitement of the event wore off, he makes up his mind.

He has to find Martin.

Except that, apparently, Martin wouldn’t be making it that easy.

The first time he sees his assistant rush down the hallway after seeing him, he doesn’t think much of it. Martin is probably busy, it must be a heavy workload with no Archivist.

The second and third times, he is confused, and then hurt.

Jon understands that he was gone for a long time, how much that must have hurt, but he does not understand why after everything they had been through together, how Martin could simply… Turn him away.

It is very clear he is missing something.

Even so, no matter how he searches, how he tries to get Martin to talk to him, how he looks for someone to confront, he still comes up empty handed.

There had to be tapes from while he was gone, right? The Institute is not one to go undocumented. But there are no new ones in the Archives, none at his desk, or in it for that matter - it’s starting to look more like he’s going to have to ask questions until he gets answers or sit in the dark while his last good relationship slips between his fingers.

That, or...

Jon sits in the middle of the Archives, Watcher on his back and burning a hole in his neck. That’s okay, he doesn’t mind it this time.

He closes his physical eyes and opens the other. He visualizes the door in his mind - he can see the water seeping at the cracks, it bubbles out and flows past him, wetting his feet. But there is nothing here about Martin. He needs to go deeper.

He puts his hand on the knob, and then twists.

“Oh. Another one of you, huh? I promise, I’m still not doing anything interesting. I guess I don’t mind, though. I wouldn’t think you count as a person, since...you know.”

The tape recorder, unsurprisingly, does not respond - simply continues whirring on. Martin sighs.

He considers turning it off, but before he can, there is a buzzing that fills his brain, overwhelming him until he doubles over the desk with all its power. He covers his ears, anything to block it out, but it only intensifies, making him cry out.

Slowly, he stands up. He does his best not to trip, but fails - he catches himself at the last moment, narrowly avoiding getting himself a bloody nose.

Martin stumbles to the door, crashing into the frame. He doesn’t notice, the noise is more painful.

When he looks up, he sees Jon staring at him intently with all three eyes. It occurs to him in the back of his mind that he should get away, as soon as possible, lest he face Peter’s wrath - but he doesn’t think he could move away, even if he wanted to.

“Jo - Jon… Please… Stop…”

He struggles to get the words out, but all at once the ringing stops, so it must have gotten his message across. He collapses onto his knees, gasping for breath.

“I apologize,” the Archivist says. “It seems I’ve underestimated what my… What our powers can do.”

“It’s fine,” Martin wheezes, “but I should get back to… Oh…”

He nearly starts crying at the feeling of Jon’s fingers cradling his chin, forcing him to look up at his Archivist. He can’t run. Running was never an option. 

“It’s okay. You don’t need to be afraid.”

Martin gulps.

“Shh. It’s alright.” Jon releases his face, drawing back and opening his arms wide, smiling: an invitation. “I know. I know everything. It’s okay.”

All at once, Martin crumbles. Too weak to get back on his feet, he simply hugs the Archivist’s legs, cradling his face against Jon’s thigh as he weeps openly into the rough material of his jeans.

Jon just smiles wider, reaching down to thread his fingers through his assistant’s hair.

“There, there. Go on, let it all out. Such a good boy. Such a good assistant.”

Martin pulls away, sobs wracking his body as he forces himself once more to look up.

“Y-you’re not… You’re not mad at me? How are you - after all I’ve done, avoiding you, I…”

Jon bends down, taking Martin’s face in his hands.

“You don’t need to worry about anything, Martin. I could never be angry with you. I love you, more than you could ever know.”

“But I - there are things, that you, you don’t -”

“I do know. I know. Oh Martin, so lost without me. But you needn’t fret any longer. It’s all in the past. I’m here now, and that’s all that matters.”

“Peter… Peter is going to be angry with me.”

Jon seems to tense at the name, his smile constricting into an angry grimace.

“Let him be. He can no longer touch you here.” _He never had any right to._ “He can be dealt with later. There is no reason to think about him anymore.”

Martin tries to look away, but is stopped. It feels like Jon’s gaze is burning a hole through his skull.

And then the Archivist kisses him, and all his worries wash away.

It’s tender, and soft, and Martin melts into it, still blubbering like a baby. Jon seems content and unhurried, simply responding in kind to his rushed and desperate kissing. It is incredible, and painful, and so, so very overpowering after so many months of zero human contact.

He wants to hold on tight and never let go, but when Jon pulls away, Martin lets him.

“It must awfully lonely, in that little apartment of yours,” Jon starts, “Come back to my place instead?”

“I’d love to,” Martin says, then kisses him again.

He can tell that Jon is different, that something fundamental has been changed - though he’s not sure if it’s been since the coma was broken or simply earlier today. Even so, the Archivist’s piercing, all knowing gaze doesn’t bother him like he thought it would.

Being watched, and being known entirely - a feeling so foreign and yet so familiar, and so intense that he can’t help but blush the entire ride back.

He ignores the anxious feeling in his gut that usually means he’s about to be punished as he steps out of the cab.

Still, Martin can’t help but feel a curl of doubt weave its way up into his chest.

“Are you sure this’ll be okay?” he asks as Jon unlocks the door with ease, not even looking at the lock or the keys.

“Do you doubt me, Martin?”

“Never.”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem,” Jon says as he holds the door open.

Martin sighs and goes inside.

“There’s still -”

“Things we need to consider. What Peter said, yes. You apparently take it quite seriously.”

Martin frowns.

“That’s not fair. You know what he said, so you should also know I was just -”

“Trying to protect me.”

“Stop finishing my sentences for me. It’s creepy.”

Jon looks taken aback for a moment, and then bashful. It’s frighteningly human.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, “I didn’t realize. I’ll try not to do it again.”

Martin deflates and all of his irritation evaporates. It’s just Jon. It is still just Jon, just with… New additions.

“It’s fine. Just… Just don’t do it again, okay?”

“Okay.”

After a few moments of painful silence, Jon sits down on the couch, patting the space next to him as an invitation. Hesitant but willing, Martin sits next to him. He sighs in relief at the familiar feeling.

“It’s been so long,” Martin whispers. The Archivist hums. “I just… I missed you so much, you know. I hope you don’t think I didn’t think about you every day.”

“I know.”

“God, Jon, I just - I’m so sorry, I -”

He’s cut off by Jon kissing him, pushing him back so far he nearly collapses into the couch.

When he pulls away, the Archivist drifts into roaming with his hands, rubbing Martin’s hands, pressing into his knuckles, running fingers over his forearms.

“Is this okay?” Jon asks.

He simply nods, too teary eyed to do anything else.

Being watched. Being known, so fully. He shudders as the Archivist counts his freckles, running his hands over every valley, every nook - every scar; two perfectly surgical along his chest, running into the jagged dots along his clavicle and neck, straight and clean lines all the way down his arms.

He can’t bring himself to be embarrassed, not when Jon looks at him with such affection, enveloping him in a soft blanket of calm as every detail of his life and love is torn from him, carefully examined and then returned.

Martin has closed his eyes, simply relaxing into Jon’s gentle caresses, by the time the silence is broken.

“Does this… Feel weird? To you? Does it scare you?”

He cracks open an eye to see Jon staring intently at him.

“No. It doesn’t.”

Jon smiles sweetly in response.

“Why are you asking? Are _you_ scared of it?”

“No. Though, perhaps I should be.” He pauses. “I don’t think it matters. Not anymore.”

Martin hums, not sure what the appropriate response is. Jon just sighs, content, holding his assistant’s face in one hand, gently rubbing circles into it with his thumb.

“Did you know you’re beautiful, Martin? Because you are. You are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”

He blushes. “Um. Thank you, I guess.”

“I mean it. Every part of you is beautiful, every part of you I love without a doubt. Did you know you have freckles in your eyes? Little dark spots near your pupils. I could draw them from memory if I wanted. 

“Your hair, too. So soft. So wonderful. I love your cowlick, just on the right side of your scalp.” He touches it, running his fingers through Martin’s hair, who shivers in response. “So many beautiful shades of brown and gold, so vibrant. Your hands are big, and warm, and strong. Very unladylike. You hated it when your mother would say that, didn’t you? There were so many things she hated about you. So many things she didn’t appreciate about you. She made you feel like a failure. She made you feel like you had to mistreat your body, force it into one shape, because she couldn’t see how perfect you are.

“Because you are so strong, Martin, but you are also so gentle, and loving. The way you would take in every stray animal off the street if you could. The way you believe the best in everybody, even when they don’t believe in you. They say you’re fat, ugly, cowardly. But you’re only human, oh so very human, and it’s so beautiful.”

Martin isn’t sure when he started crying, but now fat, hot tears roll down his cheeks, only for the Archivist to kiss and lick them away before pulling away to look at him with such love and adoration that he feels he might burst.

As Jon whispers sweet nothings into his ear, making his chest swell with warmth, he thinks that maybe he agrees.

They are both beautiful, and at this moment in time, he feels at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> this was a Long Project, well, longer than i expected anyway! honestly i thought it was going to end at like... 2k at best, probably? but then i just kept writing and writing and it just never Stopped. but im really happy i wrote this!! if you read, please leave a comment! i take fic requests on tumblub (@patheticnyas). also, biggest of thanks to my beta, seraph (@erikaangelchild on tumblr). without her this wouldn't have been possible!


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